


Recovery

by AshLudgate



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Past Rape/Non-con, Profanity, Self-Harm, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-13 18:44:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20587262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshLudgate/pseuds/AshLudgate
Summary: On a particularly bad mental health night, James Buchanan Barnes reflects on his time spent with HYDRA and the damage it's caused.Bucky Barnes no longer exists. That man was destroyed by HYRDA. What was left was a broken shell of a man.A stranger.This story explores his journey through his recovery.





	1. Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Substance abuse, profanity, slight suicidal ideations, self-harm, mentions of past rape.

It was a bad night for Bucky.

Fuck, that was an understatement. When did Bucky not have a bad night? When did he last have peace? Probably before the war; maybe 1943. In fact, it was probably the crisp fall afternoon before he received his draft letter. He couldn’t even tell Stevie the news right away. Steve had to find out by discovering the letter himself.

Presently, it was not 1943. It was 2014, barely three months since Steve had found him after being on the run. Buck was alone in their apartment. Steve was away on a mission…again. Those were always Buck’s worst nights.

The drink in his hand was as cold as the chilly December breeze outside. The only sound around was the ice cubes in his drink clanking against the glass that was housed with whiskey. Buck’s serum didn’t prevent alcohol from effecting him as much as it did Steve. It was a blessing and a curse. He knocked back his full glass, and used his right hand to pour himself another. His metal hand was gripping his favorite switch blade. On nights like this when he was trapped in his head, he liked having his hands occupied. Buck fidgeted with the blade, spinning and twirling it around his fingers absentmindedly. It was a simple movement for him, but one the average person would have had to practice at for months. For Buck it was simply his fidget.

Bucky was medicated. Heavily. He had refused to see a therapist when he returned from his days as the Winter Soldier, despite Steve and Sam’s constant pleading. However, the idea of medication pleased him. Anything to numb the pain.

Therefore, three times his (already strong) prescribed amount of Xanax was currently coursing through his veins. Steve would be pissed when he found out; he always counted the pills. But Buck would do _anything_ to turn his brain off right now. Was alcohol a great addition to that mix? Doubtful. Regardless, he downed his second drink.

The man stared out the window, eyes glazed over and unseeing during his silent panic attack. Sometimes, his panic attacks include hyperventilation, sweat, tears, and bone-rattling trembling. Other times, he simply sat unmoving, heart racing, his eyes glass, as a warm numbness spread from his fingertips, to his hands, arm, and slowly, the rest of his body.

These were the worst kinds of panic attacks, he thought to himself. Mostly because his mind was still _racing_. The only thoughts on his mind consisted of the war, and then eventually, his time as the Winter Soldier. Despite his best efforts, no amount of alcohol or medication could ease his pain or turn his goddamn brain off. However, the Xanax and whiskey were effecting him. He was dizzy, and his brain felt fuzzy, like a radio station he just couldn’t quite tune correctly. The few times Buck’s eyes could focus on objects, he couldn’t quite make them out completely. His fingers twitched as he put the knife down and lit a cigarette.

Shit. He really fucked up this time.

The trigger that caused his current state was a commercial on TV. That’s all. It was innocent enough; it displayed a little girl sitting at her desk at school when the bell rang. A commercial for a tutoring center, he believed. It was the damn bell. It was the same type of ringing the Winter Soldier heard after his mission was over. The memory played out in his mind like a recording.

That was the sound that put the Soldier to sleep and woke up Bucky Barnes. That particular ringing was the first thing he always remembered when he came to. Then his mind would flood with the Soldier’s memories of the people he slaughtered. The familiar slam of dread and guilt always followed. It buried him alive after each mission.

Next, Bucky would process the men standing before him. Brock Rumlow, Alexander Pierce, and the countless other goons that took turns tearing Bucky apart physically and mentally. After receiving their mission report and sounding the bell to summon the war veteran back to consciousness, they would have some…”fun” with Bucky before wiping him clean and putting him back on ice. No matter how many times his memory was erased, these particular horrid memories stuck with him each time.

Bucky remembers every single god damn hand that was every laid on him. He remembers every knife cut, every water board, every gun shot, every snap of his bones, every baseball or barbed wire ever slammed into his body…

Every hand that was placed on his body non-consensually, both above and below the belt area.

He remembers the smell of gin on Rumlow’s breath when it brushed against his ear and ran down his neck. The feeling of his teeth on Bucky’s ear as it trailed to his jaw. His lips against his own, and on his bare chest. The shiver that ran down his spine when Rumlow’s hair brushed against his skin. The welling tears and silent screams that refused to leave Bucky’s chapped lips. The paralyzing pain and fear as the goon finished the job.

Bucky, of course, usually had to reciprocate. He was their bitch, as the men always reminded him; he was good at pleasing. Bucky had flashes of genitals in his mouth, of entering men from behind, using his metal hand to pleasure. These memories were for hazier than others. He remembered feeling unclean, dirty, like the filthy slut Hydra constantly reminded him he was.

Bucky shuttered, vividly feeling the men run their large fingers through his hair. That’s why they wanted him to keep it long. He recalled their voices.

“I want to pull your hair until you scream, you fucking slut,” they’d moan, their breath hot against his skin.

Bucky knew not to fight the men. Fighting back resulted in electric shock, a slap across the face, a knife in his leg, a broken nose, or the rod…the fucking rod.

“You’re going to be a good little bitch for me,” he remembered Rumlow whispering against his lips. He could still hear the Hydra agent’s orders. “Kiss me. Suck me. _Fuck me_. And when you’re done, I’ll fuck you until you bleed, you worthless cunt. And you’re going to tell me how badly you want me.”

Bucky hasn’t been able to get hard since. It rendered him a broken shell of his former self. What kind of person could love that?

In the present, Bucky started to come too. He blinked, and then flinched, realizing his cigarette had been put out on his flesh arm. He looked at the crispy black scar it left, and brushed away the ash that had fallen on his skin and lap.

“You’re going to cum in my mouth. And then you’re going to thank me and beg me for more. Look at you, the fist of Hydra, reduced to our filthy bitch.”

Buck threw his empty glass of whiskey against the wall, wincing as it shattered, scattering ice cubes and broken shards of glass across the room. Bucky tried to stand, but he fell to his knees, his bare feet and hands digging into jagged pieces of glass. Bucky barely registered the pain. Blood started trickling around him as he gasped for breath.

“Fuck, baby. You sure know your way around a dick. Not surprising, considering all the experience you’ve had, fucking whore.”

Desperate sobs escaped him as he collapsed to the ground, curling up into a ball. He felt dirty. He wanted to scrub his body clean, rid himself of all the sin and hell that his past contained. But it was no use.

This is who he was, now. This is who he’d always be.

Bucky lit another cigarette with shaky hands—so badly he thought he’d drop it—and instantly put it out on his skin next to his new scar. The pain combined with the glass digging into his skin kept him grounded and returned to the present. This was real. He was not still with Hydra; the men were dead—most of them. He was safe. He was in Steve’s apartment in DC.

He lay on the ground, now aware of the wetness on his face that he registered as tears. Bucky was hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion, and felt as though he’s been hit by a train. Bucky felt no desire and had no energy to get up. He lay a crumpled heap of a mess on the ground. The Xanax was still in his system. The ex-assassin felt weightless, as if he was floating. All his movements seemed to be in slow motion. He stared at the ceiling above him, hyper focusing on a moth crawling towards the dangling light. It was too bright. Bucky didn’t care.

Coming down from a PTSD panic attack was rough. He had no idea how long he had spent staring out the window disassociating, and later, panicking on the floor. It felt like all day, but was probably few hours. Bucky picked at one of the larger slices of glass on the floor, brushing his thumb against it calmly.

Buck reflected on the memories he was just trapped in, and the person it turned him into. He was no longer a man, or even a person. Bucky was an asset. A tool. A killing assassin. A worthless pile of flesh left to rot on the floor of his and Steve’s apartment.

He was a toy to use for other’s expense until the tricks didn’t work anymore. He was a mistake, a slut, a whore, Hydra’s dirty bitch. James Buchanan Barnes died the day Steve found him on that table at Hydra’s base during the war. He was an empty shell for others to do as they please. Bucky lived to serve. He knew nothing else.

Bucky was a stranger to himself and to others.

Bucky—if he even deserved to be called that anymore—remembered back as far as he could to the bleak, broken shards of memories of his past life. He had some snippets of memories with Steve when they were kids. He thought about their trip to Coney Island when they were 17, and Bucky spent all his money winning stuffed animals for Stevie. He won everyone over with his spot-on aim; he was always a good shot with a natural sniper’s eye. He also remembered wooing all the girls there, flirting, making them blush with just the wink of an eye.

Memories of the ‘30s seemed like a lifetime ago; rather, they felt like someone else’s memories entirely. Bucky Barnes was a man from a distant past life. He would never return to that life.

Bucky tried to sit up, even though the Xanax had him dizzy and disoriented. It felt almost like an out of body experience. He used his weightless arms to fill himself another drink in a new glass—whiskey neat, this time. Hazy, glazed-over gray eyes watched the liquid swish around. He thought about how easy it would be to crush the glass with just a simple twitch of his metal fingers. He thought about how many human’s skulls he crushed that way. Bucky squeezed his eyes shut tight and willed those memories away, knocking back the strong drink and felt it easily slide down his throat and warm his insides.

Bucky, almost back to the present finally, took a moment to search and assess the damage of the room he destroyed. It was still spinning, and his body was tingling; everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. God, he was _thirsty_. But all he wanted was whiskey, and the warm burn of a cigarette burn on his arm. Looking around the room brought feelings of shame and devastation. It was a real mess he had made here. There was a small pool of blood mixed with glass around him. Thousands of shards of glass were scattered throughout the whole room, and the crash of the glass had made a dent in the wall. Dread burned his insides when he thought about Steve coming home.

The man groaned, feeling nauseous, and managed to get enough strength to find his phone.

Shit. Six texts and three calls from Sam; Five missed calls from Steve and ten texts. How many days has he been wallowing like this? Bucky wasn’t sure. He checked Sam’s messages first.

[ Hey man. Want to grab dinner tonight? I’ll cook. I’m still suffering from the last time you cooked for me. ]  
[ Barnes, you ghostin me? Let me know if you got my message. ]  
[ Bucky. Call me back. ]  
[ It’s been days, man. I gotta here from you. ]  
[ If this is your way of getting me back from our last prank war, fuck you. ]  
[ If I don’t hear from you in an hour I’m coming over. Steve says you’re not answering him either. ]

Buck ran trembling fingers through his hair, despite some blood on his hands. Despair swallowed him whole when he opened Steve’s messages.

[ Hey bud. Just wanted to check in. I know things can get kind of lonely with that big apartment all to yourself. Mission is going well. No problems here. ]  
[ Day 1 wrapped up nicely. Hope you haven’t texted because you’re busy with Nat or Sam, and not moping around. Keep your head up. ]  
[ Day 2 went well. Nothing eventful, still alive. Please call me when you can. Miss you. ]  
[ Please return my calls. ]  
[ Buck. You’re starting to worry me here. ]  
[ James. Please. ]  
[ Today’s the day we storm our target’s headquarters. If anything goes wrong, just wanted to let you know I wish the best for ya and I love you. I’ll be safe I promise. I’ll even use a parachute. ]  
[ Mission went as expected. I’m okay. Hope you are too. Please call or text, Bucky. I have to know you’re okay. God forbid… Please. ]  
[ I’m coming home early. I’m helping the team with damage control and leaving before wrap up. See you soon. I told Sam to check on you. ]  
[ Remember I’m with ya ’til the end of the line. ]

Well, fuck. Both of their most recent texts were sent today. Either of them could be here any minute. Bucky didn’t bother calling either back. Instead, he slammed the phone against the wall, feeling a sick satisfaction in watching the pieces fly in every direction. The sound still made him flinch. Everything did.

Buck knocked back the full glass of whiskey he had forgotten about. He lost track of how many drinks that made. Almost instantly he was hit with another more intense wave of nausea.

As soon as Bucky felt the sick start to raise up, he bolted for the bathroom. He almost crashed into multiple pieces of furniture along the way, his doped up head not allowing his body to coordinate properly. After swaying through the spinning room, he made it to the bathroom just in time to get sick, his throat burning the whole time as an entire bottle of Fireball whiskey came up. He clutched the bowl while his fingers trembled, his bangs and hair drooped down. He heaved heavily, chest raising and falling dramatically as he struggled to get enough air between the next round. Sweat covered his forehead, his face a ghostly white.

Bucky wondered in the back of his mind if he was dying of overdosing, or alcohol poisoning, or a combination of the two. He laid at the toilet after the worst had past, a strange sense of calm overcoming him. The sweet release of death was not something he would mind. In fact, he craved it. Buck spit into the toilet, the episode over for now, as he tried to stand. His legs felt like jello, like they’d give out underneath him any minute. He returned to the living room. Seeing again the state of the mess he made filled him with another wave of depression.

Buck gave up. He laid on the floor away from the mess of blood, glass, cigarette ashes, pieces of shattered cell phone, and whiskey. He curled up into himself and allowed himself to sob openly. Some loose strands of brunette hair covered his pale face, and tears moved down to his nose, his cheek, his clothes, the floor. All barriers were down now. No walls were up. He was completely vulnerable.

Bucky had to accept that this was who he was now. He was not the lop-sided grinning man he was in 1943. Not the man who could charm any lady with a flirtatious glance. Not a Hydra agent who did other people’s biddings, murdering whoever he was told too. Not Bucky Barnes, a recovering young man on the road to a brighter future with his pals on his side.

He was the man who had PTSD attacks triggered by the sound of a recess bell in a God damn commercial, leading him to a silent panic attack, destruction of property and himself, to the point of getting sick. This was who he was now. Bucky couldn’t get help. Not from Sam, not from Steve, not from himself. He was at the point of no return.

He had no where to hide, no where to run, other than to his gun or a bottle of pills.

Bucky laid on the floor like that, curled up with his knees tucked to his chest, taking deep breaths between shoulder-shaking, heart-wrenching sobs.

This was who James Buchanan Barnes was now.


	2. Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an implied suicide attempt, Steve visits Bucky in the hospital and attempts to get him to open up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: Mention of desire to self-harm; implied suicide attempt.

It was the first day the hospital held visitation since Bucky had been admitted, May 3rd, 2015. It’s been six months and 17 days since Steve found Bucky in Romania; five months and eight days since they’ve been together; and five days since Bucky made an attempt on his life.

Currently, Bucky was sitting outside on a bench, finding the stem of a flower particularly interesting. What he did not find interesting was Steve’s concerned face as he sat next to him. There were guards in about every direction they looked; it was a small price for getting to have visitation outside, though.

They’d been sitting in silence for what felt like ages. The small talk was over. Steve bit his lip. Honestly, he had no idea what to say to Bucky. There were no words to describe what he was feeling. And that meant a lot, coming from the man known for making his signature speeches. He’s hardly ever had a difficult time finding the words. There’s a first time for everything.

“We can’t sit here forever, Buck,” the blonde finally said softly, reaching out for his hand.

“No touching,” one of the guards snapped suddenly. Steve retreated his hand and looked down. It was painful to not have any physical contact with his boyfriend, especially when he needed him the most.

“Technically we could,” Buck offered, a small guilty smile raising at the corner of his lips. Steve frowned disapprovingly.

“James.”

Bucky flinched. That’s how he knew he was in trouble. The thumb on his right hand was brushing against a tall sunflower next to him. He still didn’t look up.

“What do you want me to say?” Bucky breathed out. His left hand ruffled through his hair. “‘Sorry I tried to kill myself?’ Because I’m not. I’m just sorry I failed,” he muttered.

Now it was Steve’s turn to flinch.

“Don’t say that,” Steve said harshly, anger raising in him. He desperately craved skin contact with his boyfriend. “How could you do that? How the hell could you do that?” Steve made a fist, his hand shaking as he gripped the side of the bench. He was never one to raise his voice, but Bucky struck a nerve. “Do you know what it was like finding you on the bathroom floor with a bunch of empty pill bottles? Take a second and think about what _you’d_ feel if you found _me_ like that.” Steve couldn’t help but tear up. He did his best to fight them off. “I thought I_ lost you_, Bucky.” Steve’s voice was breaking.

Bucky was struggling, himself. Hearing Steve talk like this and hearing the raw pain in his voice was breaking him. He did as he was told and imaged if their roles were reversed and Buck had found Steve on death’s door. It wasn’t a great feeling. Buck stayed focused on the flower. He had broken off a leaf. He dropped it to the ground. He knew he owed Steve an explanation.

“I’m just…I’m tired, Steve,” he finally said, the weight of his agony flooding his gray eyes. True to his word, he looked exhausted. “Tired of hurtin’.” There were a million reasons why he did what he did, but Bucky wasn’t ready to put that on Steve yet. They were his burdens to carry.

“That’s selfish, Buck.” A tear managed to slip out. It landed on his hand. “You’re my everything. You said ’til the end of the line. You can’t cut that line short. It’s not fair to me.”

Bucky broke off another leaf.

“_Look at me_, dammit.”

His word choice and tone were enough to get Bucky to finally make eye contact for the first time all visitation. He didn’t like what he saw. There was nothing but pure, unfiltered pain staining his blue eyes as he cried.

“You say you’re tired of hurting. Then let me help. Because I’m tired, too. I’m tired of you sitting on the patio for hours smoking through a whole pack. I’m tired of feeling helpless when you wake up screaming and don’t let me hold you. I’m tired of you shutting me out when I could be listening, helping, _something_. Because it went too far this time, Bucky.” Tears were now freely falling, and Steve was visibly shaking. Strong, steady Captain America, trembling because he was terrified. “Too goddamn far,” he whispered.

Bucky listened, now fiddling with the hem on the bottom of his shirt, but he forced eye contact. Bucky had no idea how badly he actually hurt the man. Now it was his turn to tear up.

“‘m sorry. I don’t know what to tell you. It’s hard.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“Do you think you can try for me?” Steve asked, both his voice and his eyes pleading with desperation.

Bucky thought, hesitating. He didn’t think Steve knew just how heavy Bucky’s load was. He suffered through decades of crap. But the look Steve was giving him broke him. He looked like a kicked, abused puppy.

“Yeah, Stevie. I’ll try.” He offered Steve a small smile subtly rubbing his thumb over Steve’s hand. Steve took it and gave it a squeeze.

“That’s all I ask for.”

It was physically hurting Steve to not pull his boyfriend into a tight hug and never let him go. He squeezed his hand again. “I love you, ya know. And I’m going to take care of you. Because you’re my everything. I mean that. Without you, I’m nothing. I need my other half. And as soon as you’re stable enough to be out of here, I’m going to make up for all the lost hugs and kisses.” Steve smiled through his tears. “You’re stuck with me, ya know. I hope you know that.”

Buck was quiet, but he smiled. He’s never been one to communicate his feelings like Steve did. He did all his communicating with his eyes, or a flash of a smile, or a shrug. Steve’s always known what he meant, though.

“I know, I know,” Buck grumbled under his breath. He hated admitting Steve was right, so he never did. That didn’t stop him from pouting, though. He brushed away his own tears, and then Steve’s, ignoring when the guards fussed.

Bucky took a deep breath and shuttered. He wasn’t okay, but he was going to try to be. Honestly try.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Buck.”

“’Til the end of the line?”

“’Til the end of the line.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of what I wrote in the psych ward when things started looking up. Partially based on a visitation I had with my fiance. Further chapters will deal with Buck's continued steps in recovery. The next few chapters will be longer.


	3. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being out of the psych ward, Bucky continues to progress through his journey of recovery and learning how to cope with his demons.

Bucky looked in the mirror after taking his shower, towel around his waist, his brown locks sticking to his face, framing it nicely. He could smell the scent of the new conditioner Steve bought for him. It smelled sweet, like berries. It was much better than his usual musk which resembled pinewood trees or cigarette ashes, creating an illusion of a forest fire.

The man studied his reflection, bringing his flesh hand up to the side of his face. He could see signs of him finally aging. Little creases around his eyes gave him away. He moved his hand down to brush against the hard scuffle that had accumulated over the past week without shaving, scratching at his chin. He decided it was time for a shave.

He grabbed the razor from the counter and applied shaving cream with the other. Once fully coated in all the right areas, he placed the blade on his face and moved the razor down. He did this until all the shaving cream was gone. On the last stroke, he nicked himself a bit.

Bucky watched as the small red dot grew larger, a thin red stream beginning to fall from the cut. He didn't grab a rag and fix it right away; it was like Bucky was mesmerized by the thick crimson stream dripping from his face.

Desire to do more sparked within Bucky. Dread immediately followed; 'Be strong,' the dangerous man told himself. He heard it in Steve's voice. He looked at the tool in his hand and watched it tremble with need, but also with fear. He looked to his wrists where several cigarette burns were housed; it had been a while since he last went down that road. This would undo all that hard work. And what other kinds of demons would . that consequentially let out?

Buck threw the shaving razor no where in particular; it ended up landing with a clang in the bath tub. He punched the mirror with his metal arm, and the whole thing shattered completely. Buck grabbed a wash cloth, wet it, and applied it to his accidental shaving cut.

Those days were over. Every day it was a struggle to keep moving forward, to be hopeful. It just took baby steps. This was one close-ball baby step for Bucky.

Bucky thought about calling the therapist Sam finally had him seeing. Buck wanted to try and control this one himself. He thought about the list of coping skills they'd had him write down. Call a friend. Vape (it had nicotine, but with less damage than an actual cigarette). Writing. Drawing.

Drawing. Bucky wanted to use his body as a canvas. Places where he'd want to cut or hurt, he'd draw. Bucky emptied a bucket of markers out onto the table and he got started.

First, he grabbed a dark crimson red, and began drawing his star--his mark--on the inside of his left wrist. However, something didn't quite feel right. He got halfway through when he had an idea. Instead of completing the star that no longer resembled who he was, he completed the other half as Captain America's shield. After finishing coloring the red, he gazed at what he'd made, it was a symbol of how far they've come and the intimacy of their relationship. He wanted to get a tattoo of this one day.

Instead of continuing his drawing, he started to write names. Steve Rogers. Sam Wilson. Natasha Rominoff. Sarah Rogers. Clint Barton. Thor. He even added Tony Stark to the list. Bruce Banner. His sister Becca.

There was now no room left for skin to mark on , which meant no room for Bucky to cut, slice, or burn with a cigarette. He marveled at the creation he's made.

Bucky started to get a bit misty eyed. It was a small and barely worthy victory in his mind, but Bucky was...proud of himself. He wanted to self harm to deal with the pain on the inside, but instead he filled his skin with love in a way he could never destroy himself; at least not tonight. His thumb brushed over the mark of their combined symbols, the Hyrda star and the patriotic shield. Bucky smiled, and a tear fell on his arm, landing on Sam. He bet Sam would be prould too.

Bucky pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of his small victory and sent it toe Steve and Sam. He was concerned for a moment, wondering if he was making too big a deal over this. That thought evaporated at Steve's instant reply.

[ Buck, that is beautiful. I love this creative outlet. I am so proud of you. Let me know if you ever don't feel safe. Keep me on call. ]

The tears kept coming at Sam's reply.

[ I see you actually used one of my coping strategies when you needed it. That's awesome. Keep up the good work. You're on a great path of recovery. ]

Bucky was absolutely beaming reading their messages. For once, he allowed himself to be happy and proud of his small accomplishment. For the first time in a long time, he felt hopeful, like there was a light at the end of this long, dark, dreary path. You just need a good team to help guide you, and high hopes that everything would be okay.

Bucky took one more look at his arm of his support team before turning the light off and heading to sleep. That night, he had a good night's rest, and no nightmares for the first time in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is short. I wrote all of these while I myself was in the psych ward for similar issues, and I wrote everything my hand in my journal. I just wanted to lay them out somewhere to share with the world.

**Author's Note:**

> I was recently admitted to the psych hospital after a near suicide attempt. On the first night there, after being extremely medicated, I wrote this in the journal they gave us to write down our thoughts. I woke up the next morning to 20 pages of this. My emotions were poured out through Bucky in our most vulnerable state.
> 
> I may update with a continuation exploring his experience moving forward and healing. I wrote a few more drabbles as I progressed, which are much more hopeful. Let me know what you think.


End file.
